


All The Things I Just Can't Keep

by justkisa



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-19
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2019-01-19 11:55:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12409857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justkisa/pseuds/justkisa
Summary: Joe goes to Italy. He doesn't say goodbye. Not to Sergio. Not to anyone.





	All The Things I Just Can't Keep

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blindbatalex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blindbatalex/gifts).



Joe doesn’t say goodbye to Sergio.

He doesn’t say goodbye to anyone.

He doesn’t know, then, that he needs to.

***

It’s Kidd, not Guardiola, who tells Joe that he’s going to start against Steaua Bucharest. He says it simply, after the last training session before the game. Just says, “Harty, lad, you’ll be starting the game,” and claps him on the shoulder.

Joe’s slow to respond but he manages a nod. “Yeah,” he says, “All right.” 

Kidd nods, quick and brusque, and says, “You’ll be captain as well.” 

“All right,” Joe says again but the words come out rough and a little choked, though he says them without really thinking about them. 

Kidd stares at him for a moment. Then he reaches out and squeezes Joe’s shoulder. He holds on a shade too long, grips Joe a shade too hard. Then he lets go, claps Joe’s shoulder, and says, “Good lad.”

He’s gone before Joe considers that he should’ve said _thank you_.

***

The day of the match is foggy and gray.

It doesn’t feel particularly different than any other match-day. 

Joe’s done all these things before. Ridden the coach to the stadium too many times to count. Always the same. 

When it’s time to get changed, he does it on auto-pilot. Pulls his jersey on. He picks up the captain’s armband. It’s day-glo yellow, bright and vibrant against his hands. All he has to do is strap it on. But he doesn’t.

It’s a light, insubstantial scrap of fabric but it feels heavy in his hands. 

“What, Harty,” someone - Vinnie - says, “Forget how it works?”

Joe looks up. There’s Vinnie, in his street clothes, smiling down at him. 

“Shut it,” Joe says, “Of course I fucking haven’t. I—“ He stops. 

“Stand up then,” Vinnie says, “Eh, Harty?”

Joe pushes himself up. Vinnie doesn’t move back and so they’re toe to toe. “Well,” Vinnie says, his voice dropping low, tone gone somber, “Give it here then.” 

Joe holds his hand out. Vinnie plucks the armband out of Joe’s grasp. “Lift your arm,” he murmurs. 

Joe does.

Vinnie fastens on the armband with brisk efficiency. “There,” he says, once he’s done. “There we go.” He pats Joe’s shoulder. “All set.” 

“Thanks,” Joe says, and he means—

—means too many things. None of them he’ll ever say. 

Vinnie smiles. “Yeah. Yeah,” he says. He leans in and gives Joe a quick, hard hug. “Go on then,” he says, “You’ve got a game to play.”

And Joe squares his shoulders, lifts his chin, and goes.

He can hear the fans as soon as he steps onto the pitch. Can hear them scream his name.

They don’t stop for the entire game. 

They sing. They scream. They never stop. 

Then the game is over and they’re still singing.

He turns in a circle. Lifts his hands and claps for them. Blows kisses.

He hugs more people than he can keep track of. The opposing players. The refs. His teammates. 

They say things to him. Shout in his ear. Squeeze him too tight. Pat his back.

But all he can hear is the crowd.

When there’s no one left to hug. No one’s hand left to shake. He goes around the pitch. Claps. Looks at every familiar row of seats. Every line on the grass. At the frame of the goals. 

It’s dark, the pitch illuminated by the bright lights overhead, and a chill has settled into the air. 

But the sound of the crowd reverberates through him. Settles into his chest. Into his very bones. 

He puts his hand over his heart. Slaps it against the crest on his chest. 

The crowd shouts louder.

And, for a second, he can feel sunshine on his face, can remember the sound of crowd, the rush of the fans onto the pitch. The way it felt to give them that moment. The way it felt to _have_ that moment. 

He closes his eyes and he can _see_ it. Bright and technicolor. 

He opens his eyes. And all that he sees is emptying stands and the dark night sky.

But, as he walks off the pitch, the sound of the crowd - past and present - rings in his ears.

In the dressing room there are more hugs. It takes him twice as long as it usually would to make it to his spot. He should start getting changed. Normally that’s what he’d do. But he just sits down. Collapses down onto the bench. 

He picks at the tape on his fingers. Pulls it off and drops it on the floor. That’s the easiest part. 

Sergio plunks down next to him. He’s already wearing his street clothes. He leans into Joe. “Good game, ah? The fans— They sounded good.” 

Joe leans back into him. “Yeah. Was— Was good. It…” He trails off. “Do you—” he says, “Do you remember…” _The way the sun was shining. The great rush of sound inside the stadium. The way the trophy glinted in the sun when Vinnie lifted it._

Sergio pokes Joe’s knee. “What? Joe?”

Joe blinks. “Nothing,” he says, feeling foolish for giving voice to those thoughts, “It’s— Nothing.”

Sergio curls his hand around Joe’s wrist. “We have many good things to remember, no?” 

“Yeah,” Joe says. Sergio’s hand is warm. Solid. Familiar on Joe’s skin. “Sure we do.” And they sit and Sergio leaves his hand where it is. And Joe wonders if his list of good things is the same as Sergio’s if he remembers—

Everything. 

He turns towards Sergio and Sergio looks up and him and smiles. Joe knows the shape of Sergio’s smile the way he knows the feel of his hands. 

“Lot of good things,” Joe says, his voice gone rough. 

Sergio looks down, peeks up at Joe through his lashes, almost demure but a hint too sly. “Many memories,” he says.

He squeezes Joe’s wrist. Then lets go. “You should, ah—“ He gestures at Joe. “Change, no?” 

“Yeah,” Joe says, “Right.” 

Sergio gets up and leaves him there.

Still, though, Joe can’t bring himself to get change. Can’t make himself pull off the jersey which has been his for so long it feels like a part of him. 

He takes the armband off first. Fumbles it twice before he can get it off. 

When he finally pulls the jersey off, it feels a bit like peeling off his skin.

***

Two days after the Steaua Bucharest game, Jonathan calls.

“How do you feel about Italy?” Jonathan says as soon as Joe picks up the phone.

“Hello, Jonathan,” Joe says, “How are you?”

Jonathan huffs. “Italy? What do you think?”

Joe never thought about leaving England.

Never thought about leaving—

“Which team?” 

“Torino.”

All Joe knows about Torino is that they’re in the same city as Juventus. 

“I—“ he says, “I don’t know. Italy?”

Jonathan’s quiet for a moment then he says, “You don’t have a lot of options left.”

Joe scrubs his hand through his hair. “They want me? Truly?”

“Very much,” Jonathan says. He pauses then adds, quiet and serious, “They’re the only ones making an offer I, and most likely City, would be willing to accept.” 

“All right,” Joe says, and just saying it makes him feel a little queasy, but it’s better to be wanted, better to— “Yeah. Let’s, uh, let’s do that.” 

“All right,” Jonathan says, his usual over-loud exuberance restored, “I’ll make it happen.” 

The next call from Jonathan comes when Joe’s with England. “All right,” he says, “You pass the medical and we have a deal.” 

“Right,” Joe says.

They arrange it special. Jonathan gets him permission to leave the England camp. 

Raz and Stonesy come to see him while he’s getting ready to go. They lean against the doorframe and watch him shove stuff into his suitcase. “So,” Raz says, while Stonesy fiddles with the edge of his hoodie, “Italy, huh?” 

Joe shrugs. “Yeah. Guess so.” 

Raz smiles, a little forced, and says, “Least the food’ll be good.” 

Joe laughs a little. “Sure. Yeah.” He goes back to the dresser and grabs more stuff. “Now get out of here, m’sure you’ve got better things to do then watch me pack.” 

They both come over and give him hugs. Stonesy mumbles in his ear, “We’ll miss you, yeah?” 

Joe pats his back. “Yeah. Yeah.” He sets Stonesy back. “Go on now.” 

Stonesy smiles a little and lets Raz tug him away.

***

While Joe’s waiting for the plane to take off, he fiddles with his phone. He opens the camera by mistake. He goes to close it but then, on an impulse, he lifts it up and takes a picture.

It’s a crap picture. Off-center and a little blurry. 

What he should do is delete it, instead he sends it to Sergio. Then he sends _getting ready to take off_.

Sergio’s reply comes as the plane starts to taxi _for Italy?_. 

Joe has just enough time to send back _yeah_.

He doesn’t get Sergio’s _good luck_ until later but it makes him smile.

***

Joe’s first impression of Italy is chaos. There’s the sound and movement of the crowd. People are shouting at him from all sides in a language he doesn’t understand. People reach out to touch him. Tug on his shirt. Grab at him.

When they get inside the building, he feels out of breath. Like he needs something to hold onto. Something to steady himself. 

Inside it’s quieter but it’s more of the same. Something is said in Italian, then repeated in English. Then he answers in English and someone translates. 

They put a scarf on him. Hand him a jersey. He turns it over in his hands. His name is on the back. This is his now. This unfamiliar arrangement of colors and sponsors. “You,” the translator says, “Ah, you are going to go to the window.” He gestures at the jersey. “Show the fans.”

When they open the window, he can hear the fans again. He holds up the jersey and they get louder. He waves. Blows a kiss. Gives a thumbs up. It’s the only way he has to speak to them.

In the car later, on the way to the hotel, he types out a text to Sergio. _I think I understand now. What it was like for you when you came here._ He stares at it. _Here_. Joe and Sergio’s _heres_ aren’t the same anymore. 

He deletes the text. Sends Sergio one of the pictures he’d snapped from the plane while they’d been sitting on the runway waiting to disembark.

Sergio’s reply comes when he’s eating dinner. _looks nice_.

***

Joe’s first day at the training ground goes about how he expects. There’s a lot of introductions to various club officials. He does his best to be polite. Trots out the few phrases of Italian he’s managed to memorize with a little help from Google Translate.

Finally, after what seems like an eternity, they finally move on to the introductions that matter. The ones to the guys who are going to be his teammates.

Joe doesn’t understand why they introduce him to Obi first until Obi smiles and says, “Hello, welcome,” and holds out his hand. 

It surprises him and he leaves Obi hanging for a second too long before he reaches out and takes his hand. “Ah,” he says, “Thanks, uh, it’s—it’s nice to meet you.” 

Obi gives his hand a brisk shake and says, “You as well. You as well,” before dropping Joe’s hand. There’s a rapid fire discussion in Italian between Obi and the club representative then Obi says to him, “Come with me, I will—“ He waves toward the rest of the team, most of whom are staring back at them. “Introduce you.” 

“Right,” Joe says, “Okay.” 

He hesitates though and Obi says, “Hart?” 

“Does anyone else—“ Joe starts. Then stops. He doesn’t want to finish. Shouldn’t have started to begin with. 

Obi turns back, looks up at him. He shrugs. “No,” he says, answering the question Joe couldn’t finish, “Ah, only me. Sorry.”

“Don’t—“ Joe says, “Don’t be sorry.” 

Obi smiles a little. “I will help you, okay, Hart?” 

“Thanks,” Joe says, “Uh, and call me Joe.” 

“Okay, Joe,” Obi says, smiling wider, “And you, you call me Joel.” 

Obi—Joel takes him round the room. Joe trots out the few words of Italian he knows. Tries to put faces to names. But by the end of it the only name he’s sure of is Joel’s. 

“So,” he says, once they’re done and Joel’s brought him over to his cubby, “Learning Italian, was it hard?” 

Joel shrugs. “It was not so bad.” 

“All right,” Joe says, dropping his stuff down onto the bench, “That’s—that’s good.”

Joel looks— Joe’s not sure. “You are,” he says, slow and a little hesitant, “Going to learn?”

“Yeah,” Joe says, “”Course. This—“ He has to stop. “This is my place now.” He says it. Gets the words out. Maybe. If he says it enough times. Maybe— “Gotta learn, don’t I?” 

Joel smiles. “I, ah, I could help with that also.” 

“That’d be great,” Joe says. And he means it.

***

Before Joe’s first game, he stands in front of his new jersey, just stares at it. At the unfamiliar colors. At the unfamiliar number. He reaches out and traces the 2 then the 1. Joe can just hear David, can almost feel him leaning into him, and saying in that sly, faux-serious way he has sometimes, “I see you picked the best number, no?”

Joe digs out his phone and takes a picture and sends it to David. 

He’s still staring at the jersey when Joel comes bounding up. He nudges Joe with his elbow and says, “It’s a jersey, Joe. You put it on.” 

Joe gestures with his phone. “I was just, ah, just taking a picture to send to a friend, uh—“ He pauses. It sounds stupid when he says it out loud. “Uh, he’ll think it’s funny.” Joel lifts his eyebrows. Joe’s phone chimes. The text from David says _best number_. Joe holds out his phone. “See.” 

Joel opens his mouth. Closes it. “That’s—that’s from David Silva.” He sounds awed. Over the years, Joe’d gotten used to that, the effect David can have on players. 

He shrugs. “Yeah.” 

“What’s he like?” Joel says. 

Joe smiles. “He’s a little shit, that’s what he’s like.” 

Joel startles a little bit. “Really?” 

Joe laughs. “Yeah. He really is. ‘Cept no one guesses that because he’s all—“ Joe waves his hands. “You know.” 

“Huh,” Joel says, “That’s— Huh.” He looks like he wants to ask Joe more but he just slaps Joe’s arm and says, “Put the jersey on, Joe, we have a game.” 

“Yeah,” Joe says, putting his phone away, “We do.” 

The jersey still seems foreign to him, like it’s one of the ones he’s swapped for over the years, like it doesn’t belong to him. It’s the wrong color. It’s the wrong number. The wrong crest. But he picks it up. Puts it on. And, on, it feels like any other jersey. On, if he closes his eyes, he can’t tell the difference. 

They lose the game.

_He_ loses the game.

The walk off the pitch, the incomprehensible sound of the crowd ringing in his ears, feels like it takes forever. 

Stepping into the dressing room is worse. The way it goes quiet when he steps through the doors. The smiles and nods he uses to connect with most of his new teammates most of the time seem— 

He trudges over to his spot. Someone says something, loud in the quiet, and then it’s like everything starts moving again.

Joe hauls his jersey off. He’s taking the tape off his fingers when Joel comes over and bumps his shoulder against his. “You okay, Joe?” 

Joe gives the stubbornly clinging tape on his right wrist a hard tug. “How, uh,” he says, “How do you say I’m sorry in Italian?” 

Joel leans into him. “You don’t have to say sorry.” 

Joe finally gets the tape off. Drops it on the floor. “Think, yeah, I do.” 

Joel’s quiet for a moment then he says, “For—for today, maybe you would say, mi spiace.”

“Mi spiace,” Joe repeats, slow and careful, but it doesn’t sound quite right. “Mi spiace,” he says again.

“Okay,” Joel says, “That’s good,” and Joe’s not sure, if he means Joe’s pronunciation or the apology.

Joe leans back into Joel and says, “Thanks,” and hopes Joel knows what he means.

Later, on the trip back— Not home. Never that. Joe finally checks his phone. In and amongst the other texts, all variations on _tough luck_ and _better luck next game_ , there’s two texts from David. The most recent says, _sorry about the game_. The other, earlier one, says, _Sergio wants to know why not #16?_

Joe ignores the text about the game and sends, _someone has it already the #16_. 

Joe had asked for it. Hadn’t meant to. Not really. But it’s what he’d blurted out when they’d asked what number he’d like. But it already belongs to someone else. To— 

Joe has to start remembering names. He’ll work on it. Learn the names. Learn the language. Learn to fit in in this new, unfamiliar place. He’ll start by being _better_. By paying back the chance they took on him.

David doesn’t text him back. He’s not really expecting him to. 

But later, when he’s back in the hotel room he’s still staying in, he gets a text from Sergio. It’s a string of sad faces and _too bad 16 would be good for you_. It makes him smile for the first time since the final whistle.

_i don’t know_ Joe sends back, _according to david 21 is the best number_.

Sergio’s response is immediate. _WRONG_. 

It startles a laugh out of Joe. He wishes he could see the look of outrage he knows is on Sergio’s face. Wishes—

_you tell him that_ , he sends back, _and take a picture of his face for me_. 

Sergio doesn’t respond but the next day after training he has a text from Sergio that’s just a blurry picture of David, mouth open, shaking his head, and Joe bursts out laughing. It gets him a bunch of stares and Joel says, “Okay. Okay. Now you have to tell us what is so funny.”

Joe tries and Joel translates. It doesn’t work exactly. But it somehow it leads to Joe trying to explain some of the funnier things that go on in the—in City’s—dressing room. And people start smiling, laughing. Joe doesn’t know if it’s just them laughing at his gesturing while he tries to explain or the way that Joel can’t stop himself from laughing before he tries to translate. But it feels— Feels like the beginning of something. 

And that feels good until everyone drifts away and Joe’s left staring down at his phone. Because he’s not sure he’s ready for a beginning. Because it means an end. 

He texts Sergio back, just, _thanks_. Then, on a whim, he snaps a picture of the dressing room, of his new teammates, and sends it along with, _you made this lot laugh_.

Sergio sends back, _and you?_

Joe smiles. _me too_ , he sends.

***

They don’t win the next game.

But they don’t lose it.

Joe learns the words to shout at his backline. Learns _left_ and _right_ and _stop_ and _there_ and _away_. And forgets them half the time during the game. But they work it out. 

They don’t win the game after that either.

But they don’t lose it.

Joe finds a place to stay. Moves out of the hotel. Learns the words to say to his new neighbors. _Hello_ and _how are you_ and _have a good day_. The older women who lives to the right of him always smiles at him like she’s trying not to laugh. Joe figures that’s about his accent. But he smiles back and keeps saying hello whenever he sees her. 

He takes a picture of his balcony and one of the view from it and sends them to Sergio. 

Sergio sends back _nice is yours?_. 

It’s not what Sergio means but all Joe can think is _it’s not_. Not _his_. Not—

He’s renting the place. Picked it at random out of the five options his agent had sent him. 

_it’s where i’m living yeah_ he sends back.

_better than hotel_ Sergio sends.

And Joe types _but not—_ then deletes it and just sends _yeah_.

Then they play Roma. And they win. 

Edin comes over after the final whistle. He smiles at Joe and opens his arms. Joe steps into the hug. Edin slaps his back and says, “Joe! Joe, how are you?” 

Joe pulls him close for a moment then lets him go and says, “All right. All right. You?”

Edin smiles a little and steps back. “Oh, you know, okay. You like Italy so far?”

Joe shrugs. Italy is— It isn't Manchester. But what it is he doesn't know. Today. In the sun. Still high from winning it feels— “S’nice enough,” he says.

“Yeah,” Edin says, “Nice enough.” Then he says something in Italian that Joe can't follow. 

“What?” he says.

Edin laughs. “I said how's your Italian coming along?” 

Joe shoves him. “Fuck off.”

Edin just laughs some more. Then he sobers and says quietly, “It'll get easier.”

Joe wants to ask him what? What will get easier? Leaving? Walking around like a stranger in a strange land, an ache no victory can shake in the hollow of his chest just under his heart. “Italian?” is what he says. 

Edin smiles a little and shrugs. He looks away and says, “Aleks says they miss you.”

“He never did,” Joe says.

Edin looks back. “It’s what he meant.” 

“How is he?” Joe says.

“He’s fine,” Edin says. He looks away again. “Aleks is always fine.” 

“I should—” Joe says.

Edin looks back and smiles. “Right. Of course.” He leans in and gives Joe another hug. “Next time,” he says, “I’ll score on you.”

Joe squeezes him tight. “In your dreams, mate.”

Edin laughs. “We’ll see, won’t we?” He squeezes Joe back then lets him go and walks away.

Joe texts Aleks later _Edin says you miss me_.

Aleks sends back _he lies_ then _i do not miss you at all_. And Joe smiles because, if Aleks didn’t miss him, he wouldn’t reply at all. _i don’t miss you either_ Joe sends back. 

Aleks responds, which Joe doesn’t expect. _call sergio _. Joe fumbles his phone, almost drops it. It chimes again. _he misses you_. __

__Joe shoves his phone in his pocket and doesn’t respond._ _

__He doesn’t call Sergio._ _

__He watches the highlights from City’s latest game instead. Watches them beat Swansea without him. Watches Sergio score twice._ _

__He texts Sergio _good game, nice goals_ even though the game was almost two days ago now. _ _

__Sergio sends back a smiley face and _thanks_ and Joe thinks Aleks is full of shit._ _

____

***

Walking into the dressing room before training and realizing Joel’s not there knocks Joe back. He doesn’t know why it surprises him. He’d watched Joel go down injured. But, somehow, he’d still expected Joel to be there. Joel’s his only constant. His only, however tenuous, connection to his teammates beyond the games they play together.

Without Joel the dressing room feels like a foreign country again. 

The most he can manage on his own is _hello_ and _how are you_. 

And it feels worse now that he’s been here a little while. Now that they’ve played together. Lost together. Won together. 

There’s nothing to do thought but train. Nothing to do but hope that gestures and some smiles and his broken Italian are enough. 

He wants to text Joel. Wants to see how he’s doing. But he doesn’t have Joel’s number and that— Somehow that makes him feel worse. 

He manages, through a painstaking stop-start conversation and liberal use of Google translate, to get Joel’s number. But then he has no idea what to send. _missed you in training_ seems selfish at best. 

In the end, he sends, _how’re u doing mate?_ , realizes ten seconds after he sends it that Joel will have no idea who it’s from, and sends _this is Joe btw_. 

Joel responds right away. _hi Joe!_ and then _i’m ok_ and _how r u?_ in rapid succession. 

It makes Joe smile. _i’m fine_ he sends. He hesitates then sends _we missed you today_. And hopes the _we_ makes it okay to send.

Joel’s reply is a little slower this time but eventually he sends _not as much fun without me is it?_

It’s not so it’s the easiest thing to send back _nope it’s not_. 

Joel sends back a string of emojis that’s mostly smiling faces and a message that says _don’t worry i’ll be back soon_.

***

Joe throws himself harder into his Italian lessons after that. Determined to wrap his head around enough words so he can talk to his teammates. To try and step out of the edges of the team, to step inside it.

He’s not sure how well it works. Sometimes he feels like he’s trying to stuff words inside his head only for them to tumble right back out when he needs them the most. 

He writes and deletes a dozen texts to Sergio. Each one a variation of _how did you do it?_ or _how did you learn?_ or _how do you live in a place you don’t understand?_. 

In the end, he takes a picture of one of the worksheets his Italian tutor gave him, and sends it to Sergio along with _did they ever make you do shit like this for your English lessons?_

Sergio’s reply comes the next day. _maybe yes_ then _never finished them_. 

Joe doesn’t know how to reply to that and so he doesn’t.

***

They win their game against Fiorentina. And Joe only slips into English on the pitch a few times.

He starts just attempting conversation in the dressing room. Fuck whether he knows all the right words or not. His teammates spend a lot of time laughing at him - at his truly atrocious accent. But he doesn’t mind it. It’s better to try. Better to be laughed at then to spend his time flitting hopelessly around the edges. 

Joel comes back to training right before their game against Palermo. Joe doesn’t see him come into the room, he’s in the middle of a painstaking attempt at conversation with Belotti. 

Joel plunks down beside him on the bench. “Look at you,” he says, interrupting Joe’s tortured attempt to ask about Belotti’s day, “having so much fun without me.” 

Belotti leans over Joe to pat Joel’s knee and say something Joe can’t quite follow. Maybe _welcome back_ or something like it then something else. Joel laughs and elbows Joe. “He says your Italian is getting better but your accent, ah, still bad.” 

“Yeah,” Joe says, “It’s pretty wretched, isn’t it?” 

Joel just laughs some more. “Don’t worry,” he says, “You’ll get it. You’ll see.” 

Things are easier with Joel back. With him at Joe’s side whispering translations and patiently answering Joe’s endless questions about _is it this word?_ or _how do you say?_

Joe tries to go it alone if he can. Tries not to always hide behind Joel’s endless willingness to help him. 

Tries to remember to actually _talk_ to Joel. Buys him dinner a few times trying to convey, he’s sure inadequately, how much he appreciates what Joel’s doing for him. 

He’s forgotten how all of this goes, the awkward first stages of trying to get to know someone. The weird stop and start of trying to make a new friend. 

He hasn’t done this for years. 

At City—for England—he wasn’t the new guy. Wasn’t— 

People came to him not the other way around.

He’s not sure he manages it with any grace. Not sure, for all that he genuinely likes Joel and Joel seems to like him, that you could call them friends. 

But he tries. And thinks about texting Sergio, about picking up the phone and calling, asking, _how did we become friends, how did we—_

He doesn’t. Because he’s not sure, even today, if he and Sergio _are_ friends. Or if they are— _were_ —just teammates who— 

He doesn’t know.

***

They go on a decent run of games. They lose to Inter but they bounce back with a draw then a convincing series of wins.

Joe starts to let himself think that maybe, just maybe, things are starting to go okay. That maybe this could be a place for him.

He starts having conversations in the dressing room without Joel leaning over every other word to finish his sentences. 

He even goes out to dinner with a bunch of his teammates and successfully orders his own food. It’s stupid but both, being asked to go out, and being able to communicate even about something simple, feel like accomplishments.

Then they lose to Juventus. 

And that, it doesn’t feel good, losing never does. But it feels— _Expected._. No one thought they’d win that game. 

Then they lose against Napoli. They lose and Joe lets in five goals. _Five_. They claw three back but all Joe can see is the goals he gave up. All fucking _five_ of them. It feels like that disastrous game against Chelsea at the end of the last season. But worse. He’s supposed to be here to show he’s better than those sorts of games. He’s supposed to just be _better_. 

Five fucking goals. 

His teammates don’t seem to hold it against him. Which makes it worse.

They come up and pat his back. Wrap their arms around him and give him a squeeze or a shake. 

Joel comes and leans into him and Joe says, “I’m sorry.” 

Joel pats his knee. “Eh, Mertens was just on fire. Don’t worry. Next game will be different.” 

Joe’s not sure he deserves Joel’s (or the rest of his teammates) optimism. Isn’t sure he’s done near enough to earn it. 

“Yeah,” he says, “I’ll—I’ll make sure of it.” 

In the next game against Genoa, the last game before the break, they scrape out a 1-0 win. And it feels—

Joe’s not sure. 

It lifts his teammates. Makes the goodbyes and holiday well-wishing that much more boisterous. 

But Joe just feels restless.

He’s not ready for a break. He wants to play another game right now. Wants to reassure himself that he can do it again. Can get another clean sheet. Can do the job he was brought here to do. Do it well.

Instead, he packs his bags and goes home.

***

On a whim, when Joe steps off the plane, he pulls out his phone and takes a picture of the _Welcome to Manchester Airport_ sign.

In the car, on the way home, he sends the picture to Sergio. He writes and deletes a dozen texts to go with it but, in the end, doesn’t send one. 

His house is dark. Musty from being closed up. 

He switches on the light in the entryway and stands there for a moment. 

He’s not sure what he expected to feel. 

He drops his bag on the floor and the thunk echoes through the empty space. 

He’d lived for years in this house but it feels like an ill-fitting pair of shoes. 

His phone chimes. It’s a text from Sergio. _home?_ is all it says. 

Joe looks around. He’d spent all his time in Italy thinking of this house, this _place_ as home, and standing in it all he feels is empty. 

He sends back _at the house yeah_.

He spends one night in the house before going on to his parents’ house the next day. 

He thinks he should be grateful for the novelty of the holiday break. He hasn’t had a holiday like this since— Since he was still in school. 

It makes him restless. There’s a perpetual itch under his skin, a buzz in his head he can’t shake, this nagging feeling that he should be doing _something_. 

His parents are happy. His mum leans into him on the sofa and says, “Think I could get used to having you around for the holidays again.” 

“Yeah,” he says, “It’s— It is nice, isn’t it?” His mum smiles and reaches out to give him a squeeze. His dad looks over the edge of his paper at him and lifts his eyebrows. Like he knows Joe only half means it. 

On Boxing Day, Joe walks up with a start. Sweating. This frantic feeling beating at him. Like he’s late. Like there’s somewhere he needs to be but he _isn’t_. 

He goes downstairs. Wanders through the living room, which is still strewn with the detritus of Christmas Day, and into the kitchen. His dad is there, making tea. 

“Hey,” he says, and it comes out hoarse, like his throat’s rough from screaming, “Morning.” 

His dad looks over. “Morning,” he says. He reaches up to get another mug out of the cupboard. “You’re up early.” 

Joe shrugs. “Couldn’t sleep,” he says. 

His dad hums and pours the hot water into the mugs. “Must be,” he says, “odd not to have a game today.” 

“Uh, yeah,” Joe says, “Something like that I suppose.” 

“Sit,” his dad says, picking up the mugs and moving over to the kitchen table. Joe shuffles across the kitchen and sits down across from his dad. His dad pushes one of the mugs over and says, “How is it then, Italy?” 

Joe turns the mug in a circle. He shrugs. “All right.” 

His dad’s quiet for a moment. Joe takes a sip of tea. It’s too hot yet and it burns his tongue. He puts the mug down. “You miss it, eh Joey,” his dad says, soft and slow, “having a game today?” 

Joe picks up the tea. Takes another sip. Never mind the scorch of his tongue. He looks out the window into the morning mist settled, like tattered bits of gray cloth, along his mum’s garden hedges. “No,” he says, then, “Maybe. Just feels— Feels a bit odd not—” He shrugs. “You know.” 

“Could see that,” his dad says. He pauses. “Makes your mother happy though having you here.” And Joe knows his dad means it makes him happy too because his father always does that, always says things like, _your mother is so proud_ , _your mother says nice stop in the second half_ , when he means himself.

“It,” Joe says, turning back to look at his dad, “Ah, it is nice being here.” It’s not a lie. Because it _is_ nice. It’s just—

His dad smiles, just a little, and says, “That’s good.” 

Joe takes another sip of tea. It’s finally cooled to the right temperature.

***

On New Year’s Eve Joe goes out with some of his friends from school. He hasn’t seen most of them in awhile. They don’t ask him about Italy or football. They just get him totally plastered.

He’s not sure where they are, honestly, when the countdown starts. When the new year comes and the place they are in erupts in cheers and shouting, some girl, brunette, wearing glittery eyeshadow grabs him and gives a quick, sloppy kiss. Then she’s gone. Kissing the bloke next to him just the same.

He makes it back to his parents’ house in the early hours of the morning. It’s dark and cold but he sits down on his parents’ stoop. 

He scrolls through his phone. There’s a ton of texts from a bunch of different people that all say some variation of _Happy New Year_. There’s even one from Joel, which is mostly confetti emojis. 

There’s one from Sergio. It says _un abrazo for new year’s mi amigo_. Joe runs his finger along the word abrazo. _A kiss_. 

He touches his fingers to his mouth. And the memory—

—it’s like a sticky-too hot rush of sensation.

He licks his lips. Chasing the memory of a taste. A feeling.

All he gets is the sour tang of beer and the fake cherry taste of lipgloss.

He fumbles with the phone. Means just to text Sergio back. But, with fingers made clumsy by drink, he hits the call button. He almost drops the phone when he hears it ring. He should hang up. Should—

He doesn’t.

He lets it ring and ring and ring. 

Sergio doesn’t answer.

Joe almost forgets to talk after the beep. “Hey, uh,” he finally says, “I—I just— Got your text. Happy New Year, yeah? Um, ah, fuck. Un abrazo and all that shite, yeah. I mean like, a kiss for you too, or fuck. Fuck. Do you ever— Shit. Do you remember, do you—“ 

And then he gets cut off. 

Then there’s just the quiet and the coolness of the brick seeping through his pants. He scrubs his hand across his face and just barely manages to lean over into the bushes before he throws up.

When Joe wakes up, his head is pounding and it’s nearly three in the afternoon. 

He doesn’t look at his phone until past dinner time. There are two texts from Sergio. _joe you okay?_ then an hour later _i remember_

And Joe doesn’t know what he means. Can only remember calling. Can’t— 

Can’t remember more. Can't remember what he said. 

_i’m ok_ he sends back. 

Sergio doesn’t reply.

***

Going back to Turin feels like starting over.

Again.

He takes a picture when he gets off the plane. Sends it to Sergio. 

He doesn’t get a reply. He’s not sure he expected one.

The first day back training is rough. Even the bits of Italian he thought he was sure of seem to have slipped away. 

But Joel’s there. Smiling wide and bright. He bounces up to Joe and leans in to give him a hard quick hug. “Hello,” he says, “Joe. Joe! How are you?”

Joe dredges up a smile and says, “Not bad. Not bad. You?” 

Joel grins and chatters on about his break. His friends. His family. There’s something soothing about it. Reassuring. 

Their first game after the break is no great shakes. A snooze fest of 0-0 draw. But the clean sheet feels good. And it’s easy to slip back into his routine with his backline. Easier than he’d thought it be. 

The game after, though, against Milan, knocks him back. They give up a 2-0 lead and all he can see afterward are the goals. He turns the penalty over and over in his head. Could he have guessed better. Done better. 

He’s still thinking about it the next day when Jonathan calls. “So,” Jonathan says, he always skips hello, “City, they—“ and for a stupid, heart-stopping second Joe thinks _they want me back, they—_ “—want to send some of the in-house media guys to interview you. Guess they’re making a documentary or some shit. Ah, about the first title win or something.”

“Oh,” Joe says, “Right.”

Jonathan’s silent. Like he’s waiting for Joe to say more. But Joe doesn’t know what else to say. He’s still reeling from that short, sharp moment of hope. Of— 

“Yes,” Jonathan says finally, curt and clipped, “Or no, Joe.”

“Yes,” Joe says, “S’fine.”

“Okay,” Jonathan says, “I’ll set it up,” and hangs up without saying goodbye. 

Their next few games are a mixed bag. Joe lets in seven goals. They only actually lose one of the games but all Joe can think about are those seven goals. 

Then they play Roma again and Edin scores against him. So do Salah, Paredes, and Nainggolan. 

Edin comes and finds him after. “I,” he says, tentative, with a hint of a smile, “told you I’d score against you.”

Joe does his best to smile back. “You’re scoring against everyone.”

Edin shrugs. 

Joe leans in and claps his shoulder. “You’re going great, mate, m’happy for you.” And he means it. He does. 

Edin smiles for real now. Wide and bright. “Thanks.” He looks happy. Settled. 

Joe wants to ask him _how did you do it? how did you make this place your place?_. 

“Did—“ he says then stops. 

Edin lifts his eyebrows. “What?” 

Joe shrugs. “Nothing, ah, just did City call you too? About the—“ he waves his hands, “the documentary thing they’re doing?”

Edin nods. “Yes,” he says, “They’re coming here, ah, in the spring I think?”

“Yeah,” Joe says, “Same, I mean, they’re coming to Turin then too.” 

Edin laughs a little. “It always comes back to that game, no? Everyone always wants to know—“ He pauses then shrugs and says, “Just people always ask.”

“Yeah,” Joe says, “They do don’t, they?” 

Edin smiles a little. “Guess it makes sense, no? It was—“ He stops. And Joe understands. He can never find the right words for that game either. 

“Yeah,” he says, “It was.” And Edin looks grateful not to have to finish his sentence. 

“I should,” Edin says.

“Right,” Joe says, “Of course.” 

Edin leans in and gives him a quick hug. “Take care, ah, Joe?” he says. But he’s gone before Joe can reply.

***

Sharon comes to visit in the early part of March. She bustles into Joe’s flat and says, “Hiya, love,” and opens her arms for a hug. And, hearing her voice, her accent, seeing her oh-so familiar face, it’s—

He steps into her embrace and ducks his head so he can press his face against her hair for a second. 

She lets him hold on until he’s ready to let go and then, when he steps back, doesn’t say anything other than, “So, I’ve brought you something.” She roots around in her handbag and pulls out a box of teabags with a flourish. “Little bit of home, yeah?” She smiles. “Unless you’ve given tea up for espresso or something.”

He laughs. “Nah, ‘course not. How could I?” 

He doesn’t have a proper kettle. (He hasn’t bought anything for the flat. Hasn’t brought anything with him from home except his clothes and his electronics). Sharon shakes her head at that but she boils water on the stove in a pot Joe thinks he’s used, maybe, once, and makes them tea. 

They take the mugs out onto the balcony though there’s a chill in the air. Sharon says she wants to see the view. 

“So,” she says, settling into one of the little metal chairs that match the table, “How is it then?” She waves her hand at the view. “The city. The team. Everything.” 

Joe sits down in the other chair. Even though he kind of hates them. They’re too small and he always feels like his knees are up around his chin when he sits in them. He takes a sip of tea. It’s good. Sharon has always made good tea. She’d only do it for you on special occasions though. If she was particularly proud of you or she thought you needed a boost. She’d told him once, offhand, _well, I’m not here to make tea, am I?_. He’s always thought she hadn’t really meant to say it to him.

“The city’s nice,” he says, slowly, “And the people.” She makes a humming sound of agreement and sips her own tea. Waiting him out. “My Italian’s rubbish, though, can’t seem to—“ He stops. Takes another sip of tea. “I think,” he says, “I think I know now how they all felt, Zaba, David—“ He pauses. “Sergio, coming to Manchester. It’s—“ He stops again. “I didn’t understand before how hard it must’ve been.”

“Imagine it was,” she says. She takes a sip of tea then she puts her mug down on the table and turns to face him. “But,” she says, staring intently at him, “Worked out well enough for them, didn’t it? In the end.” 

Joe shrugs. “Yeah,” he says, “Suppose it did.”

Sharon picks her tea back up. “It will for you too, Joe.” 

Joe takes a sip of tea. “Yeah. Right. ‘Course it will.” 

Sharon stays for two days. He sees more of Turin in those two days then he has the entirety of his stay. 

Sharon has a list of places she wants to go. Places she wants to photograph. Joe tags along and lets her tell him all about her secret project. 

Right before she’s set to leave, she hooks an arm around his neck, hauls him against her side and says, “Smile,” and takes their picture. 

She starts to let him go but he says, “Wait,” and fishes out his phone so he can take his own picture. 

When she’s gone, Joe stares down at the picture. 

He hasn’t sent Sergio anything since that picture of the Turin airport. Hasn’t gotten anything from Sergio since those texts on New Year’s day. 

He sends Sergio the picture with a message. _look who’s here_.

He’s not expecting a reply.

But he gets one.

It comes the next day. _:( no fair_ Then _tell Sharon to visit me_

Joe smiles so wide it aches. _sorry mate think she’s gone to visit edin_

The reply to that one is instantaneous. _NO FAIR_

Joe laughs too hard to do anything but laugh for five whole minutes. Then he sends back _want me to text her put in a good word for you?_

_yes tell her come to manchester next_.

_okay_ Joe sends _will do_. 

He does it even though he knows it won’t make a difference.

Two days later Sergio sends him _good word did not work :(((_

And, maybe, Joe should feel worse about that but he’s too busy being happy that Sergio’s texting him again.

***

It’s just barely April the first time a journalist asks Joe what his plan is for next season. It’s after the draw against Udinese. A game they’d clawed their way back into to earn the draw.

It startles Joe. And it takes him a second to stutter out, “Not thinking about anything but the next game.” 

And he means it. Mostly. 

They win the next game. He lets in two goals but they win. Joe gets asked the same question. Gives the same answer.

Jonathan calls later that day. “So,” he starts.

Joe interrupts, “Is there some rumor going around or something? About me and next season?”

“I’m not calling about that,” Jonathan says.

“So there is,” Joe says.

“Of course there is, Joe. There always is,” Jonathan says, “Don’t worry about that right now. Look, the guys from City are coming on the 11th.” 

It’s two days away. “Little more warning would’ve been nice,” Joe says.

“Yeah. Yeah,” Jonathan says, “I’ll email you all the details.”

It doesn’t say, in Jonathan’s email, well the email from the club that Jonathan forwards to him, who’s coming. So when Joe opens his front door and Chappy’s there, grinning, wide and a little manic, it startles him into laughter.

“All right then,” Chappy says, “Are you just going to stand there and laugh or—“ 

Joe shakes his head and steps back. “Right,” he says, “Sorry. Sorry. Come in.” 

Chappy hustles inside followed by two guys Joe thinks he recognizes hauling a bunch of bags of gear. Chappy leans in and gives him a rough, back-slapping hug. “Harty, good to see you. Good to see you.” 

“You too,” Joe says, “I, uh, I didn’t know you were coming.”

“Well,” Chappy says, with a sly grin, “I always like to be a surprise.”

Chappy sits with him in the kitchen while the other two guys find a place to set up all their gear. Joe makes him tea with the teabags Sharon left him. (He’d thought about going out, seeing if he could find a kettle. But he hadn’t.)

They sit at Joe’s kitchen table and talk about this and that. About the other players Chappy’s interviewed. Joe almost spits out his tea when Chappy tells him he’s interviewed Barton. “Really?” Joe says, setting down his mug with a hard clack. 

Chappy shrugs. “Aye, interesting one that.”

“Right,” Joe says, “I’m sure,” and Chappy laughs a little. 

Finally the two guys are all set up and they come to let Chappy know. “So,” Chappy says, “Before we get going with you on camera, I brought you something.” 

Joe follows him out into the living room which has been taken over with gear. Chappy digs through one of the bags and comes out with a plastic bag. He opens it up and, before he gets out what’s inside, Joe knows what it is. “Recognize this?” Chappy says, shaking out the jersey.

“‘Course,” Joe says, “It’s the one from the game, isn’t it?” 

“You want to—“ Chappy holds out the jersey.

Joe takes it. One of the guys - Paul, Joe thinks is his name - starts taking pictures. Joe hardly notices. He turns the jersey over in his hands. Traces the _25_ with fingers that absolutely don’t shake. If no one were watching, he thinks he’d raise the jersey to his face, see if it still smelled like that day, like sunshine, like grass and sweat, like Gaël who he’d clung to so tightly he’d thought they’d stick together, like champagne. 

It’d been the easiest jersey to wear. Like it’d been a part of him. Sewn into his skin. A responsibility. A weight sometimes. But—

—it was his. Was _him_. 

Paul (or maybe Peter) murmurs something. The click of his camera has stopped. Chappy says, “Ah, he wants you to maybe put it over your shoulder, face away from the camera.” 

“Sure,” Joe says, “Right. Whatever you guys need.” 

Still, he hesitates for a moment before he does it. It’s— 

It’s almost too close to putting it on. Thank god they hadn’t asked him for that. He doesn’t know that he could’ve done it.

He throws it over his shoulder and turns away. The brush of the fabric against his neck is like the touch of a forgotten lover. “S’that—“ The words come out mumbled. He clears his throat. “Is that all right.”

“Yeah,” Chappy says, “Paulie’s snapping away there. And—“ He pauses. “So am I. Think I’ll put mine up on twitter, what do you say?” 

Joe laughs a little. “Whatever you want Chaps, whatever you want.” 

When it’s time to give the jersey back. He balks. It’s sitting in the dressing room after the Steaua Bucharest game all over again. He can’t make himself let go. Can’t. Not anymore than he could make himself peel off his jersey that night. 

“Harty,” Chappy says, quiet, like he’s trying not to startle him.

Joe shakes himself. “Right. Yeah.” He pushes the jersey at Chappy. “Here you go.”

Chappy takes it back. And Joe looks away until it’s safely packed away again.

The interview itself isn’t really an interview at all really.

It’s more like trading memories. Chappy telling him stories about this moment or that moment. And Joe telling his story of the same moment back. As best he can. 

He’s never been able to put what that day was like into words. It was too—

—too all-compassing for words. Something you _felt_ but couldn’t articulate. A feeling so big, so deep, there weren’t words for it.

But he talks about the lows, letting in the two goals. Talks about the highs. _That_ moment. The one everyone knows. Talks about Sergio. Talks about running. Running, running, running, without a thought or care to where. Running until Gaël caught him. Held him fast. Talks about how he hadn’t wanted to let him. But doesn’t say it’s because Gaël had seemed, in that moment, to be the only real thing in the world. The only solid thing in a world tilted mad.

When they’re done, when it’s just him and Chappy sitting in the midst of Paulie and Doug breaking down all their equipment, it feels like he’s coming out of a daze. He blinks. And, for a second, he’s not sure where he is. Like he’d forgotten Italy. Like he expected to see Manchester. 

When they’re all packed up and ready to go, Chappy gives him another bracing, back-slapping hug. “All right, Joe,” he says, “Thanks.”

“Welcome,” Joe says, then, “Hey, Chaps, come here a sec.” He digs out his phone and hauls Chappy in and takes their picture. Chappy makes a face. Because of course he does. “Thanks,” Joe says, letting him go, “Need something for Instagram, don’t I?” 

And Chappy laughs. “Too right,” he says. 

The picture never makes it to Instagram. 

Joe sends it to Sergio. _more visitors_ he sends with it.

Sergio’s reply comes the next morning. First _?_ then _chappy in italy why?_

_interview for that film they’re doing_

_about the game?_ Sergio sends back. He doesn’t need to say which game. There’s only one game. For either of them. Only one that will follow both of them for the rest of their lives.

_yeah_ Joe sends back. _do you ever—_ He types out. Then.

He means to delete it. But he sends it instead. And panics. 

Sergio doesn’t respond and doesn’t respond and doesn’t respond. And Joe puts his phone down and walks away.

He goes out on the balcony. Stands there for a moment. Staring at a view that still, after months, doesn’t seem familiar. When he goes back in there’s a reply from Sergio. Just _?_

Joe could finish the sentence. _do you ever think we feel like that again? experience something like that again?_ Sergio might even answer. Instead he sends _nothing, never mind_.

And this time, no matter how long he waits, Sergio doesn’t respond.

***

After that, after Chappy leaves, leaves Joe alone in Italy with nothing but memories lingering around the flat like ghosts. Everything feels different. Like it had when he’d first arrived. Like he’s gone backwards.

He just stops. Stops trying every place but the pitch. And maybe he’d done that before and not really noticed. Maybe he’d done it after that first question about next season. Maybe he’d done it when he’d come back in the new year. 

He can’t remember the last time he learned a new word in Italian. Can’t remember the last time he’d texted Joel. Or any of his other new teammates. Joel still comes over during training. Still helps if Joe needs it. But it’s like he senses Joe’s disconnect and he doesn’t linger. Doesn’t walk out with Joe after training or any of the other things he used to do. 

Joe can’t blame him.

***

Joe goes back to Manchester to celebrate his birthday. Leaves Turin behind and their disappointing home draw against Crotone behind.

He texts Sergio on the plane. _having a party for my birthday_. Then sends the details. Finally _come if you like_. 

Sergio doesn’t respond. 

The party is like old home week. With Joleon and Vinnie and Wrighty and Gaël and Shay all there. But no Sergio. 

It’s late and Joe’s well past drunk when Sergio does show up. 

Joe doesn’t realize it at first. Doesn’t realize much of anything really. 

It’s Vinnie that finds him, brings him to Joe. Joe blinks. Everything’s a bit blurry. Bit hazy. He’s not sure Sergio’s actually there. Then Vinnie’s saying, “Look who I’ve found.” 

And Sergio is there, ducking out from under Vinnie’s arm. “Sergio,” Joe blurts, “Fuck. You’re here.” 

Sergio laughs. “Of course,” he says, “You asked me to come, no?”

“Right, yeah,” Joe says, “Fuck, of course.” He steps - stumbles more like - forward. And mostly falls into the hug he gives Sergio. Sergio makes a soft, _oof_ sound, but he catches Joe and his hug is strong and he doesn’t even wobble. Takes Joe’s collapsing weight and keeps him up. 

Joe holds on too long. But he’s too blasted to care. “Happy Birthday,” Sergio says against Joe’s chest. 

“Thanks,” Joe says, “It’s— S’good to see you, yeah? So good.” 

Sergio pats his back. “Yes. You too.” 

Then Joleon sweeps in and steals Sergio away. Which might be better because Joe doesn’t know what he would’ve said next.

Joe doesn’t see him again until later. He’s coming around the corner from the men’s room and slams into him. “Shit. Sorry,” he says. He tries to reach out and steady him but he can barely steady himself. “Sorry.” 

Sergio laughs. “Is okay.” And he steadies them both.

It’s dark here, in the bend of the hallway, Joe can barely make out his face. 

“Uh,” Joe says, “Did I say thanks for coming?” Sergio shakes his head. Joe can just make out the movement. “Well,” he says, “Thanks, yeah?”

“You asked,” Sergio says, soft and a little flat, “I came.” 

Something, maybe the sour lingering taste of alcohol on his tongue, or the strange shadows painting Sergio’s face, makes him think of New Year’s. Of sitting out in the cold, in the dark, on his parents’ stoop. Holding his phone to his ear waiting for - hoping for - an answer to a call he hadn’t meant to make. Not getting one. Remembers, for the first time, a snatch of what he’d said. What he’d asked— 

“Do you—“ he blurts.

“Do I?” Sergio says. He’s stepped closer and now Joe can just see the lines of his face. 

Joe shakes his head. “Nothing. Fuck. Nothing.” 

Sergio sighs. “Just say, Joe, for—for once, no? Just say.” 

Joe doesn’t. Instead he leans down and kisses him. Graceless. Just smacks his mouth against Sergio’s.

Sergio gasps and Joe kisses him again. It feels— Just the same. Just—

Sergio steps back. 

“Do you,” Joe says, “Remember?” 

Sergio nods. “Yes,” he says, “I remember.” 

He steps back. “But,” he says, “Is over, Joe, done.”

Joe thinks he might be sick. “Yeah,” he says, “Right. Yeah. ‘Course. Look, I’m just— I’m just—“ 

“Joe—“ Sergio says, and he reaches out but Joe’s already moving and his hand glances off Joe’s arm. “Joe I—“

Joe doesn’t hear the rest. 

Later, Joe says goodbye to everyone but Sergio’s nowhere to be found. 

On the plane, waiting to take off, go back to Turin, Joe texts Sergio. _i’m sorry_.

He doesn’t get an answer.

***

The next time a journalist asks what his plan is for next season he calls Jonathan. He tries to avoid that, honestly, but needs must. Jonathan answers on the third ring. “Yeah?” he says.

“Hello,” Joe says, “How are you?” 

“What do you want?” Jonathan says.

“Next season,” Joe says, “What—“ He stops.

Jonathan huffs. “Is this about those questions again?”

“No,” Joe says, “I mean, maybe, but I just— What’re my options?” 

“It’s too early to say,” Jonathan says, “Torino, they’re making noise about wanting you permanently but they can’t afford you, not really?” 

“They,” Joe interjects, “They really want me?”

Jonathan makes a noncommittal noise. “Maybe. Probably not,” he says finally, “Then there’s a bunch of rumors from United to Everton. But it’s all talk. No one’s making real offers.” 

Joe waits, in case he’s going to say more, in case—

Finally he says, “City?”

“Joe,” Jonathan says, and it’s the gentlest Joe’s ever heard and it freaks him right the fuck out, “Shit, Joe, I thought you understood. That’s—That’s not going to happen. Not with Guardiola there.” 

And Joe _did_ know. He _did_. In his head. But in some foolish, buried-deep part of himself he thought—

“Right,” he says, pushing the words out, “Right, yeah, ‘course I did.” 

“We’ll find you the right place,” Jonathan says, “Trust me.”

“Right,” Joe says and, this time, he’s the one that hangs up without saying goodbye.

***

They win Joe’s last ever Torino game. It’s a crazy game. He gives up three goals but they score five. It’s all the best and worst parts of his time in Italy.

He takes the time to say goodbye to every single teammate. To the trainers. To the coaching staff. 

He saves Joel for last. 

“So,” Joel says, “This is goodbye.” 

“Yeah,” Joe says, “Guess it is.”

Joel smiles, wide and bright, and leans in to give him a quick, hard hug. “It was good,” he says, “To have you here.” 

“Thanks,” Joe says. Joel lets go and steps back. “Joel,” Joe says, “Uh, you— Ah, you’ve been great, yeah? Like, I couldn’t have done it here without you. So, uh, thanks, truly, Thank you.” 

Joel ducks his head. “Ah, it was nothing, really.”

Joe kicks his shoe. Joel looks up. “It was something, okay? You really helped me a lot.” 

Joel shrugs. “Yeah, well,” he says, “If I ever come to England, you do the same for me okay?” 

Joe smiles. “Sure,” he says, “Of course.” Makes a promise they both know he won’t keep.

Joel leans in and gives him another hug. “Goodbye,” he says.

Joe pats his back. “Goodbye, Joel.”

***

Joe packs up his things. Everything fits in two large suitcases and a carry-on. And goes back to Manchester. Goes home.

***

The summer isn’t any different than any other summer without anything to play for. He goes on vacation. Gets too much sun. Chucks his diet plan. Drinks too much a few too many times.

He takes pictures of every place he goes. Of every dessert he’s not supposed to eat. Of the ridiculous drink he orders somewhere that has more fruit and little umbrellas than drink in it. 

They just sit on his phone. 

He opens them up and looks at them. Almost sends a few of them. 

He doesn’t.

Jonathan calls at the beginning of July. “You’re going to have to go back and train with City,” he says. 

Joe almost drops the phone. “What?” he says.

“Yeah,” Jonathan says, “Still trying to find you somewhere so you’ve got to go back.” 

“They—they want me too?” Joe manages.

“Eh,” Jonathan says, “You have to go. They won’t take you on tour but you’ve got to report back.”

“Well,” Joe says, “Guess I will do then.”

“Atta boy,” Jonathan says, “Don’t worry. We’ll work something out. Find you the right place.” 

The first day of training he sits in his car for ten whole minutes. Then he takes a deep breath and gets out. 

It’s so familiar. Walking in through the doors. Seeing all the familiar places. He smiles. Says hello.

The first teammate he sees is David. David smiles when he sees him. Joe reaches out and runs his hand over David’s shorn head. “What?” he says, “What’s this, mate?” 

David rolls his eyes and shrugs out from under Joe’s hand. “Trying something new,” he says.

“Right,” Joe says, “Think you better go back to the old.” 

David purses his lips and straightens up in the way that means he’s going to be a contrary little shit. “Like the new,” he say.

“Uh-huh,” Joe says, “You look like a hard-boiled egg.”

David shoves him. “Fuck off.” Joe laughs because cursing always was the English David was best at.

It’s good, seeing everyone. Sergio stays away though and Joe tries not to think too much about it. 

Training is— 

Normal mostly.

But Guardiola doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t talk to him.

On his second day back he ends up alone with Sergio, mostly by accident. “Look,” he says, “I’m sorry. I, fuck, I don’t know what…” 

Sergio reaches out and pats his arm. “It’s okay, ah, Joe. It is—“ He pauses. Looks away. “Is just the past, no? Just the past.” 

Joe swallows hard. “Yeah,” he says, “Right. Just the past.” 

The third day back, Aleks grabs him after training and says, “We’re having lunch.” It’s not exactly a request.

“Tell me about Italy,” Aleks says, when the waiter puts their entrees down.

“Don’t,” Joe says, picking up his fork, “you already know about Italy.”

Aleks shrugs. “Not about Turin.” 

So Joe tells all the best stories. Tells him about Joel. Tells him about the Torino fans who were better to him than he deserved. He runs out of stories before they finish and they finish eating in a mostly companionable silence.

“I’m leaving,” Aleks says, once the waiter takes away their empty plates.

“Oh,” Joe says, fiddling with his unused salad fork, “Yeah?”

Aleks plucks his napkin out of his lap and folds it in two quick, neat movements. He places it on the table. “Yes,” he says and nods, quick and decisive, “It’s time.” 

He makes it sound simple. And Joe wants to ask him how he does that. Make leaving sound ordinary. Easy.

“Know where?” Joe says instead.

Aleks shrugs. “Not yet. Roma maybe.” 

“What does Edin think?” Joe says.

Aleks looks away. “He doesn’t know. In case—“

“You don’t go?” Joe says. 

Aleks looks back. He nods. 

“I,” Joe says, he thinks of Edin the last time he saw him, how happy, how settled he’d looked, “hope it, Roma, works out.” Because happy as Edin had seemed, Aleks would make him happier.

“It will,” Aleks says, “Or it won’t.”

“I—” Joe says, “I’m leaving too.”

Aleks is quiet for a moment then he leans in and says, quiet and matter-of-fact, “Joe. You already did. You left.” 

And Joe looks away. Can’t keep looking at him. “Yeah,” he says, and his voice breaks, “Yeah. ‘Suppose I did.” 

“This time,” Aleks says, signaling for the check, “When you go, remember to say goodbye.” 

The day before the rest of the squad leaves on the tour he’s not invited on. Joe says goodbye.

To everyone.

To Sergio.

***

On his first day with West Ham, after training, he gets a text from Sergio. _goodbye_ it says and _good luck_. 

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Joel Obi was the only other English speaking member of the Torino squad during the 2016/2017 season. [He acted as interpreter for Joe during his stay at Torino.](http://www.pulse.ng/sports/football/joel-obi-nigeria-international-acting-as-interpreter-for-joe-hart-at-torino-id5638387.html)
> 
> 2) Jonathan is [Jonathan Barnett](http://www.telegraph.co.uk/sport/football/11887714/Footballs-most-powerful-agents-revealed.html?frame=3451477), Joe's agent.
> 
> 3) Sharon (former Manchester City club photographer) really did go visit Joe in Turin in [March of 2017](https://www.instagram.com/p/BRgyhwyAaZW/). The visit goes differently in the story than real life but it really did happen!
> 
> 4) In April 2017, Chappy, former City kitman turned in-house media person, interviewed Joe for the documentary City made in 2017 about the title winning game against QPR. (And yes, [Joe's jersey](https://twitter.com/ChappyMCFC/status/851741442766721030) from the actual game was involved).
> 
> 5) You can find said documentary (at least the player's section which features Joe along with several other players) [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oepskn9gjDI).


End file.
